The Dwarves d-1 Page 8

  "Hence the mercenaries at the gates."

  "They're here to protect us until King Tilogorn's soldiers rid us of the beasts." He turned to go.

  "Wait!" Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man's words had given him faint grounds for hope. "Will there be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay."

  The publican shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn't surprise me."

  "When do they get here?" he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his mission to the Blacksaddle. All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel.

  "By rights they should have been here three orbits ago," said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.

  The name Idoslane was derived from the land's bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos, the kingdom's great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.

  A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: "Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive King Tilogorn from the throne!" When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.

  If Tungdil's memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.

  Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren't for the orcs.

  "Not a bad place, is it?" observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil's gaze.

  "Save for Toboribor." Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located on Idoslane's most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. "Why are the brutes on the move?"

  "They're bored, that's all. Orcs don't need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing…They don't know any better."

  "And they're strong," said another, eyes widening theatrically. "There was a time when-"

  "Not that old fable," groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.

  "You don't have to listen. I was talking to the dwarf." In spite of his injured tone, the storyteller had no intention of abandoning his tale. "I came up against a whole bedeviled mob of them. Great hulking beasts, they were. It was during my employ in Tilogorn's army. We-"

  "Happier times, they were. The old prattler never had time to scare folks with his stories."

  "What would a publican know about it? If you'd seen the accursed things, you'd have some respect." He turned back to Tungdil. "I'm telling you, dwarf, they were a terrible sight. A whole head taller than most men and ugly as sin: big flat noses, hideous eyes, and sticking-out teeth. It was worse for the young lads; they nearly died of fright."

  "That's funny," murmured Tungdil. "I read a description just like that in-" He clamped his mouth shut, but no one had heard. To cover his embarrassment, he scratched his sunburned head. Any later in the season and his scalp would have burned to a crisp by now. The sun took a bit of getting used to.

  "Half an orbit it took to kill those wretched brutes. My, they were tough! When I was young no one would hire mercenaries to keep the orcs from their gates. Orcs or no orcs, Idoslane was safe in our hands. Times have changed," he said regretfully, mourning the decline of Tilogorn's army and the passing of his youth. He glanced down and caught sight of Tungdil's ax. The blade had been put to good use in the woods and was looking somewhat neglected, with blobs of dried sap and splinters sticking to the bit. "Don't tell me you've been using a fine ax like that for hacking wood!" he exclaimed, aghast.

  "I had to get through the undergrowth somehow." Tungdil reddened, hoping to goodness that no one would ask him to demonstrate his race's legendary axmanship. The truth was, he knew nothing of fighting.

  Tungdil had learned everything he knew from Lot-Ionan, who took little interest in weaponry, sword fights, and close combat, leaving his ward without a military education. No one had ever shown him how to wield an ax in anger. The servants chopped wood or killed rats with their axes and that was as far as his handling of the feared dwarven weapon went. His race was supposed to be skilled in axmanship, but if faced with an aggressor, which well he might be, he was resigned to striking out haphazardly and praying that the beast would run away.

  "The dwarves are great warriors, or so I've heard," said the veteran trooper. "Runs in the blood, does it? Is it true what they say about a single dwarf putting pay to a pack of ten orcs?"

  Tungdil had long suspected that he wasn't a proper dwarf, but now his fears were confirmed. Listening to the men made him realize that his kinsfolk would laugh if they could see him, which put an end to his enthusiasm for meeting others of his race. Even the thought of the fairer sex seemed more alarming than appealing.

  "Ten orcs," he said, hoping the trooper was right, "absolutely…" He yawned loudly, stretched, and rose. It was time to escape his own doubts, shake off his nosy questioners, and find a bed. "You'll have to excuse me: I need to get some sleep."

  His fellow drinkers, their initial suspicions forgotten, were reluctant to let him go, but at length he was permitted to make his way to the second floor of the timber-frame house where the publican had quartered him for the night. The room was a dormitory, but a large one, and Tungdil had it to himself.

  He used the washbowl to bathe his sweaty feet, which had been confined to his boots since the start of the journey. Savoring the luxury of his third beer, he stood by the window and gazed out over the tiled roofs of Goodwater.

  The settlement was a good size, numbering a thousand or so dwellings. The villagers seemed to make their living from the surrounding fields and orchards and what wealth they had was now threatened by orcs. Tilogorn's anxiously awaited army would have to hurry if there was going to be anything left to save.

  Tungdil dried his weary feet, folded his clothes over a chair, and buried himself in the thick feather duvet.

  Silvery light shone on the leather bag destined for Gorйn, sorely testing his resolve.

  Don't meddle with things that don't concern you, he told himself sternly.

  Even as he fell asleep he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala, whose talisman was looped through his belt. He missed the sound of her laughter. Tomorrow he would ask the publican for directions to the Blacksaddle and press on without delay.

  Muffled sounds roused him from his sleep.

  Two men were taking great pains to ready themselves for bed without making any noise. Outside a storm was howling and raging around the settlement.

  A whispered exchange followed, during which Tungdil felt certain that he heard Lot-Ionan's name. He peered warily at the newcomers: a thin, well-dressed gentleman and a taller, broader fellow clad in leather mail with metal plating.

  A merchant and his bodyguard? Their garments were clearly worth a gold piece or two. He caught sight of a simple yet striking trinket attached to the larger fellow's leather lapel. It was embossed with the seal of the magi.

  They're envoys to the magi's council! "Are you headed for Ionandar?" he asked, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Curiosity had triumphed over caution.

  The broad man frowned. "What makes you think that?"

 
"The brooch." He pointed to the man's gown. "You must be envoys."

  The pair exchanged looks of surprise. "Who are you?" the bearer of the trinket demanded. Tungdil introduced himself. "What news of Lot-Ionan?" the man said sharply. "Is he well?"

  "Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourselves first," the dwarf requested with impeccable politeness. They supplied him with their names and occupations: Friedegard, a first-tier famulus apprenticed to Turgur the Fair-Faced, and Vrabor, a warrior in the service of the magi. "Lot-Ionan is in excellent health," Tungdil informed them. "You'll see for yourselves when you get there." He struggled to contain himself, then gave in. "Pray, what is the…" He reconsidered and began more plainly: "What do you want with the magus?"

  "Our business is with Lot-Ionan, not his message boy," Vrabor said dismissively, loosening the buckles on his armor. "Why do you think the council sent an envoy and not a town crier?"

  He had barely finished speaking when the storm outside whipped into a frenzy, gusting through chinks in the walls and emitting a strange, unnatural whine, which was followed almost immediately by a high-pitched whistle.

  Tensing, the two men reached for their swords.

  Not a night to be abroad, thought the dwarf as he watched the moonlit scraps of cloud chase across the gloomy sky.

  Just then a slender face appeared at the window. Tungdil looked into the gray-green eyes and felt his mind go numb. The apparition was more bewitching than frightening: Long dark hair swept the beautiful visage, the occasional strand plastered against the rain-drenched skin. So pale, so perfect was the being that it resembled a marble sculpture of an elf, its bedraggled locks like fine fractures in the stone.

  The dwarf stared helplessly, transfixed by the creature's gaze. The countenance was attractive-of that there was no question-but it inspired in him an almost physical revulsion. It was too beautiful, almost cruelly so.

  "Over there…" His breathless warning was enough to alert the envoys, who looked up and dove for cover.

  At that moment there was an explosion of glass as a long black-fletched arrow shattered the window and whined through the air, planting itself in the wall.

  "You get rid of them; I'll deal with the window," shouted Vrabor to his companion. Seizing the heavy table, he upturned it and slammed it into the wall, then hurriedly jammed some furniture against the makeshift barricade. There were no other openings for arrows to enter.

  Meanwhile Friedegard, eyes closed and head bowed, was chanting silently and tracing strange symbols in the air. In his right hand was a coin-sized crystal set in gold.

  "Can someone tell me what's going on?" Tungdil scrambled out of bed and grabbed his ax because it made him feel safer.

  The envoys listened in silence. Although the wind had abated, the rain was falling more heavily than before. They strained their ears, but there was no sound of the mysterious bowman. He seemed to have vanished with the tempest.

  "Has the elf gone?"

  "I can't be sure," said Vrabor. "Perhaps." He sheathed his sword and sat down on the bed, hands resting on the cross guard of his weapon. "They could be biding their time."

  "They?"

  "Дlfar, two of them. They've been tailing us since Porista."

  So it wasn't an elf after all…The дlfar, a race crueler than any other, were sworn enemies of the elves. They hated their cousins for their purity, a purity that the дlfar themselves had been denied. It was hatred and jealousy, according to the history books, that impelled them across the Northern Pass and into Girdlegard. "Is Lot-Ionan in danger?"

  "Lot-Ionan will come to no harm," Vrabor assured him wearily. "The дlfar are powerless against the magi and they know it. The arrow was meant for Friedegard and me; they want to know what we're carrying. We knew they were following us as soon as we left the capital of Lios Nudin, but they waited until they could be sure of our destination before they attacked. I'm sorry, groundling," he said, responding to the unspoken question in Tungdil's eyes. "I'm sure you're a loyal messenger and I know we're indebted to your vigilance, but our business is between the council and Lot-Ionan. You'll have to save your questions for your return."

  "I'm a dwarf, not a groundling." Tungdil toyed with the idea of accompanying the envoys to Ionandar the next morning and telling the magus of what he had seen, but he decided against it. His mission to the Blacksaddle was more important. He sat down and laid his ax across his knees.

  The rest of the night was spent in watchful silence, their fear of the дlfar keeping tiredness at bay. None of them slept a wink, but Friedegard's spell seemed to have worked and there was no sign of their assailants. At last, with the coming of dawn, the tension finally fell away and Tungdil lay back and dozed.

  III

  Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Reclining in his wing chair with his feet on a stool, Lot-Ionan had made himself comfortable in a corner of his study and was leafing contentedly through a grimoire, one of the many that lined his walls. In addition to his slightly shabby beige robes he wore even shabbier slippers and his pipe lay beside him, tobacco at the ready. Steam rose from a glass of herbal tea on the table. The magus was savoring the peace and quiet.

  "Do you hear that, Nula?" he asked the barn owl who was perched on the back of his chair and seemed to be studying his spells. "Not a sound. No noise, no explosions. I was loath to say goodbye to Tungdil, but I know it was the right decision."

  Blinking approvingly, Nula replied with a gentle twit-twoo. Lot-Ionan knew full well that she couldn't understand him, but he enjoyed their conversations. It was an excellent way of collecting his thoughts.

  "I suppose it was a bit mean of me, really," he confessed. "Gorйn left the Blacksaddle goodness knows how many cycles ago. He abandoned the mountain after falling for the charms of a beautiful and intelligent elf." The owl blinked again. "You want to know how I heard about it? My former apprentice told me himself. It was all in a letter that he wrote from Greenglade. He seemed most contented with his new abode and gave a full account of the superior allure of elven women."

  The thought of Gorйn's mistress reminded Lot-Ionan of his age. He had long since lost interest in pleasures of the flesh; other matters took precedence in his mind.

  "Tungdil will find out his new address, I shouldn't wonder. And when he does, he won't rest until he's tracked Gorйn down and accomplished his errand." He took a sip from his steaming glass. The cold air of the vaults was conducive to study, but he found himself drinking countless cups of tea.

  Nula blinked, this time almost reproachfully.

  "What?" he said defensively. "Don't you remember how he and Jolosin ruined my work? You know how fond I am of Tungdil, but another incident of that kind while I'm rewriting the formula would be disastrous! I took the necessary measures to ensure a lengthy absence, that's all."

  The owl seemed unconvinced.

  "Come on, the journey will do him good! After everything he's read about Girdlegard, it's time he saw the country for himself. Besides, he'll be back before you know it, pleased as punch for finding Gorйn on his own. And as for Jolosin, he'll never want to look at another potato, let alone eat one, and he'll be cured of playing tricks. We'll all be better off in the long run." His eyes fell on his solar calendar. "What's that I see? Nula, we're expecting an important guest!"

  The circular slide rule indicated that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty would be visiting that orbit. Needless to say, his fellow wizard would not be putting in a personal appearance. With five hundred or more miles separating their realms, they communicated via magic, availing themselves of an elaborate ritual that could be implemented only during certain phases of the moon.

  Not that Lot-Ionan minded the distance. Nudin was fast developing into the most disagreeable character that Lot-Ionan had ever known. At the same time, he was becoming a formidable magus, his growing skill as a wizard correlating almost exactly with his objectionableness as a man.

  Of course everyone developed his own personal a
pproach to studying the mystic arts, but only Nudin seemed to think that being rude, bad-tempered, arrogant, and overweight would somehow serve his cause.

  "I'll be honest with you, Nula: That man has spells and charms at his fingertips that others could barely decipher, let alone perform." He reached under the table and fished out a jug of water and a glass. After giving the latter a quick polish on his robes, he held it critically in the candlelight.

  There were those who said that Nudin's rising power as a magus had not been gained through study and hard work. Rumor had it that he had cast a spell on his body and invested it with the ability to retain magic indefinitely. Lot-Ionan gave the gossip no credence, but even he was forced to concede that Nudin had changed in character and appearance.

  At that moment the air cooled suddenly and a fierce gust of wind swept through the room, nearly extinguishing the candles. A faint bluish haze shimmered at the center of the study, gradually assuming the contours of a man. In the span of a few heartbeats, Lot-Ionan found himself staring at Nudin's imposing bulk.

  The wizard of Ionandar appraised his dark-robed guest. Nudin seemed to have grown again-outward as well as upward. His paunch looked larger than before, which was possibly the reason for his especially voluminous malachite-green robes.

  Chin-length mousy hair hung limply about his face and there were dark circles around his usually lively green eyes. The apparition was a perfect replica of the real magician, who at that moment was standing in the circle he had cast in his study in Porista, working the magic for his doppelganger to appear.

  The illusion was incredible. Lot-Ionan had never seen a more perfect demonstration of the phenomenon in all his 287 cycles. Apparitions usually shimmered slightly or were marred by minor imperfections, but this one was complete.

  Nudin, holding a finely carved maple staff crowned with an impressive onyx in his left hand, languidly dusted his elegant robes with his right, dispatching the lingering blue sparks. Suddenly Lot-Ionan felt terribly underdressed.